


Hypothetically, Yours

by itachitachi



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Community: hs_merlin, Crush, M/M, Modern Magic, Outdoor Sex, Painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 06:10:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itachitachi/pseuds/itachitachi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Merlin are best friends, and neither of them is a member of the Magic Club. All is as it should be, until it isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hypothetically, Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [hs_merlin](http://hs-merlin.livejournal.com/profile) on LJ, gifting for Jasmasson. Thank you so much to my betas, Trojie and Briar_Pipe, for buoying my spirits when I needed it most! Characters are over 16.

Arthur has accomplished many things over the course of his high school career. He's been in the student orchestra for years, led the rugby team to countless victories, and against all odds maintained a nearly unblemished academic record. Sure, between tournaments and concerts and homework and exam revision he's gone without sleep for days on end, but one does what one must when one is the child of Uther Pendragon. Arthur does all this because he must.

Another thing he must do, and therefore does, is stay away from the school's Magic Club. If his father even caught wind of a _rumor_ that Arthur had gone near there... well, Arthur isn't sure what would happen. It would involve a cold, steely voice, and a great deal of shame—that's as far as Arthur wants to consider it.

So he never goes to Magic Club. He doesn't take their informative handouts, doesn't look at their flyers, doesn't even speak about it to anyone.

At least, anyone besides his best friend. Somehow he finds himself telling Merlin everything.

"It's absolutely ludicrous, that's what it is," Arthur remarks through a mouthful of toastie. They're sitting on their blazers on the scrap of hillside behind the school, eating lunch. "Not that I'm interested in the slightest, or have the time for it anyway, but the way he _dictates_ everything. What if there's one at uni, Merlin? Will he tell me not to go near that one, too?"

"Yeah," Merlin says drowsily. He's got his scarf over his face, blocking out the sun.

Arthur yanks the scrap of fabric away.

"Ahh!" Merlin squints out the sun, face scrunched horribly, and sits up. "I fucking hate you sometimes, you know," he says.

"I was _talking_ , Merlin," Arthur says impatiently.

"Right, yes," Merlin says. "What about, then?"

Arthur says, " _Magic Club_ ," and flops down, closing his eyes and draping Merlin's scarf over his face. He's probably getting grass stains on his uniform.

Merlin doesn't say anything, doesn't even grab for his scarf back. Definitely grass stains, then. Spectacular ones.

"It's just a stupid club, it shouldn't bother me so much," Arthur says. "I don't know what they do, I really shouldn't care. It's beneath me."

"You mean," Merlin says, sounding weirdly tentative, "you do care? You're curious?"

"Did you know the Magic Club's name is actually meant to be an acronym?" Arthur says, instead of answering. "It's the Magical Association for Gifted Individuals and Companions, shortened to MAGIC. I suppose they thought they were being clever coming up with it, but it doesn't make sense as a name when you add _Club_ on the end."

"Arthur," Merlin says, voice a little stronger this time. "Are you saying you're actually curious about Magic Club? About the people there?"

Arthur doesn't say anything, bites his lip. There's turmoil bubbling down in his chest, though he's not sure why. He tries to breathe slowly, deeply through his nose. Merlin's scarf smells nice, grassy with a hint of soap and sweat. When he blinks open his eyes, the sun filters in soft and blue.

It's not a surprise when Merlin pulls the scarf away.

"Magic Club, Arthur," Merlin says. He looks paler than he ought, confused, maybe a little bit terrified. "Are you... curious about them?"

Arthur stares at him for a moment, weighs honesty against the lines of fright in Merlin's face. Then he sits up and says, "Of course not, Merlin, don't worry. Everyone knows they're just a bunch of—you know. Menaces, drains on funding. Maybe once in a while I wonder what sort of thing they get up to when they're all together, but I'm not _interested_ in them like that. Best for the both of us to stay away from them."

It's sound advice; it sounds like something Arthur's father would say. But it doesn't look like it comforts Merlin very much, and Arthur feels a bit sick knowing it's come off his own tongue. They're quiet for the next few minutes, Arthur attempting a comforting pat on the back to little apparent effect; Merlin smiles weakly at him and then grabs for the remaining bit of Arthur's toastie, and then the bell rings and they head inside.

Arthur's uniform is stained from the grass, but not as badly as Merlin's.

+++

So what he does then is:

1\. Considers giving up his fascination with the Magic Club. He isn't sure if he can, but Merlin and Uther have both made it clear that they don't like the idea of him getting involved in it, so it's something worth taking into account.

2\. Rejects this option. He isn't sure why, but there's something drawing him closer. Maybe it's his internal sense of justice crying out when he thinks of how the magic-positive have been painted in today's media; maybe it's latent curiosity about the mysterious circumstances surrounding his mother's death. Maybe all that is too optimistic, too pretentious to be true—maybe it's a simple desire to glimpse that wild, elemental side of the world through which others walk freely.

3\. Drops the topic with Merlin completely. Arthur hasn't kept secrets from Merlin before (unimportant ones like _I actually wouldn't mind it if you hugged me_ not included), so this is hard. He wants Merlin there staking out the Magic Club with him. He doesn't like keeping his mouth shut around Merlin, wants to tell him everything. Merlin is good for that, listening, and Arthur misses it—but Merlin doesn't want him to get involved with anything magic and presumably wouldn't appreciate Arthur dragging him in, so Arthur stays silent.

4\. Avoids his father, and Morgana. It's not too difficult; Arthur is used to presenting a certain front in front of Uther, and hiding everything else. He's gotten practiced at covering his tracks, because what Uther doesn't know won't hurt him, but what he does know might hurt others. Morgana is a little more difficult, but she's preoccupied with other things as well, busy every Tuesday and Thursday and otherwise slipping through life with her chin held high. Arthur leaves her to it.

5\. Dives in.

+++

Between rugby, orchestra, and exam revision, Arthur doesn't have a lot of free time, so the beginning of his quest is composed of background research. Observation, mostly. He doesn't want undue rumors getting back to his father if he asks questions, and he's never been particularly close to any magic-positives or their friends.

No one from the rugby team has magic, so far as Arthur knows. He asks Lance quietly if he's got any additional information, because he trusts Lance, but Lance just looks at him warily before saying that he'll ask around. Arthur hopes that doesn't mean that this will get back to Merlin; Lance is a good guy, someone who keeps his friends' secrets, but he and Merlin have always been close.

In the orchestra, there are more than a few. The first violist, Sophia, has always had a strange spark in her eye, and Arthur lets it draw him in now. He follows her after rehearsal on Tuesday instead of going home, because Magic Club meets on Tuesdays, and he's curious.

She leaves her viola in the instrument storeroom for the night and heads not for the school gate, but for an upper wing, and doesn't even glance at him when they cross paths, even when he smiles at her. That's practically an invitation, Arthur judges, and follows her.

It's difficult to follow someone unobtrusively down a school corridor, especially when it's after hours and you are the only two in the area, but she never looks back. He hides behind corners before tracing her path, leaving a good distance between them but still keeping track of her. By the time she reaches her destination (the door to room B32, a sign posted on the front with **Magic Club** written on it in block letters), he thinks he's managed it.

Then she turns around to face him, and smiles slowly. Her teeth are white.

"Arthur Pendragon," she says, unsurprised. "Come to investigate our secret headquarters, I see. Going to spy and report to your father afterwards?"

Arthur steps reluctantly out from behind the corner, a little embarrassed. "I was just curious," he says. "I don't believe everything my father tells me. I wanted to see for myself."

"I'm sure," she says, examining her nails. "Unfortunately, I doubt many in our little club would take kindly to your presence, even if you were capable of looking one of us in the eye without flinching."

He winces, and then tries to meet her eyes. They're strangely bright, not a color he can put a name to.

"Difficult isn't it," she says, and stretches out her hand in the air towards him. "Even if you aren't aware of what we can do, you still can't look at us. You're scared."

"I'm not," he says, looking levelly into her eyes though his heart is starting to pound in his chest, faster and faster. His skin feels hot.

"Don't lie to me, Arthur Pendragon," she says, tilting her chin and examining him like a bug. "Sit through rehearsal and pretend I'm not different, even pretend you don't care if I am, but once your obligations are through at least have the decency to be honest. I could burst your heart in your chest just by thinking about it; don't act like that doesn't terrify you down to your bones."

Arthur thinks, _Was that a threat? I'm pretty sure she could be reported for that—_ and then realizes that he's sweating, and that his heart is racing like he's been running for hours. His skin feels thin with the force of the blood underneath, and he can feel his own heartbeat in his wrists, his ears, _dun-dun_. His pulse flutters in his throat, and he realizes Sophia's delicate hand stretched toward him is twitching in time with the heartbeat pounding through his head.

His heart kick-starts, beating even faster, and doesn't stop.

"I thought so," she says, and lowers her hand just as he's starting to feel faint, just on the verge of swaying where he stands. "Don't come back here until you're prepared to be honest about it, Pendragon."

He gasps, the pressure in his temples lessening instantly. She doesn't smile at him, only watches him catch his breath before she turns, opening the door to the clubroom and slipping inside in a whirl of soft hair and sharp eyes.

And then Arthur's just standing there, alone in the hallway, with his heart still pounding and his face hot and red, emotions spinning through him too fast to be named. He stares at the clubroom door and can't imagine opening it.

He isn't sure how he gets home, but he does, slipping behind the housekeeper's back and up the stairs to his room. He must look an absolute wreck—flushed, still breathing hard. He doesn't think his heart will ever stop racing. The first thing he does is throw himself onto the bed; the second thing is to pull his mobile out of the pocket of his blazer as he shucks it off. Merlin picks up on the third ring.

"Hypothetically," Arthur says, before Merlin can even say hello. " _Hypothetically_. If you wandered into a situation where you found yourself brushing elbows with death, what would you be feeling?"

Merlin pauses for a minute and then says, "I'm not sure I like it when you get hypothetical."

"Answer the question, Merlin," Arthur says fiercely, kicking off his shoes and socks.

"Scared, I guess?" Merlin says, sounding put-out. "That seems like the most sensible option. You've never been very sensible, though."

"I'm perfectly sensible," Arthur lies, jerking at the buttons of his shirt with his free hand. "I'm sensible, logical, and completely rational. I'm going to manage a corporation one day, Merlin, I have to be sensible."

"Right," Merlin says. "Might I ask though—what brought on this particular hypothetical question? You haven't actually been brushing elbows with death, have you?"

"Of course not," Arthur says, gritting his teeth. His belt, once unbuckled, slides easily out of its loops. "Just had a very illuminating chat with a girl from rehearsal—Sophia. You haven't met her, have you?"

"Sophia?" Merlin says. "Maybe once or twice."

"I think I'll be avoiding her in future," Arthur says, leaning back against his pillows and closing his eyes. He thinks of Merlin's delicate wrists, the pale skin there and the jump of his pulse. "You might want to as well."

"Arthur..."

"I've got to go," Arthur says quickly, and hangs up.

He can't get his hands on himself fast enough, thinking of all the usual, half-guilty things: Merlin, lying pliant in the sun, neck stretched long; Merlin's fingers, curling against Arthur's, how they would feel stroking up Arthur's thighs; the dark sweep of eyelashes on cheek—

—and he can't help but think of unstoppable heartbeats too, pounding faster and faster out of his control, through every burning inch of his body.

+++

He's jittery through the rest of the next day, meeting no one's eyes as he skitters from class to class. It's not until he reaches the hillside that he comes to any sort of ease, but even that bleeds away when Merlin fails to show up. Merlin is always the first one of them to make it to the hill for break; he's usually lying there on his jacket with his sandwich half gone before Arthur gets there. Something sticks in Arthur's chest as he approaches and sees the empty space in the grass, but all he can do is sit down beside it, take out his own lunch, and wait.

It's not until fifteen minutes later (after he's given up hope) that Merlin finally appears, but when he does it doesn't make Arthur feel much better. Merlin looks bone-tired, with dark circles under his eyes like he's been up all night, worrying.

"You're more trouble than you're worth," Merlin says, settling down jerkily in the grass, like his knees don't quite want to work.

"I could say as much to you," Arthur says stiffly, taking in Merlin's jagged frame, the scraped-thin look of him. "You weren't worrying about me all night, were you? It was just a hypothetical question. No truth to it."

"I know that," Merlin says. His eyes catch Arthur's for a quick, tense moment. When they flick away, he's left unsettled, as if Merlin's seen something he didn't mean to give away.

"Merlin," Arthur says, feeling suddenly, tremendously guilty.

"Oh, you know me," Merlin says, interrupting the build of Arthur's guilt with a grin that stretches too wide on his face. It doesn't hold for long, and Merlin quickly looks away again. "You're so reckless, I'll always be worrying about you, even if I can't do anything about it."

"There's nothing to worry about," Arthur insists, and he isn't sure if what he's saying is true, or a lie, or even if he wants it to be true. Whatever it is though, it makes Merlin's face go more distant, and Arthur hates it, hates the heaviness he sees dragging at Merlin's shoulders. Merlin is supposed to be his sunshine, carefree and soft inside. Arthur aches; he wants to take back everything he's said, wants to take back the stupid, selfish phone call. He wants to take Merlin's hands in his, wants to pull Merlin in close and never let him go.

He can't do any of that, of course, so the rest of their break is stilted and just a little bit broken, the clouds above threatening rain.

"I won't get all hypothetical on you again," Arthur says, just as Merlin's crumpling up his sandwich wrapper. "I promise."

Merlin blinks, then smiles, looking tentatively relieved. "Don't beat yourself up about it, come on. You'll give yourself more brain damage that way."

Arthur growls and chases after him when he runs, grinning, and with that the whole thing has been put behind them, patched up with a promise that it won't happen again. There's only one thing for it, Arthur decides: when he tries to sneak along to Magic Club again, he won't call Merlin afterward. Merlin and magic are two things that just can't go together without catastrophe, and Arthur refuses to risk it; he'll do this on his own.

He goes through the rest of the day with singleminded focus, meticulous as he builds up and dismantles equations, nothing distracting him from the slow drone of his teachers. At rehearsal he bends low over his cello, drowning himself in the sweet vibration of strings, and it's not until he's already gone home that he realizes Sophia had never shown up.

+++

Between classes (where more reading is being assigned than ever), rugby practice (where Lance looks upon him with a quiet disapproval), and rehearsal (where Sophia fails again and again to turn up, until they are told that she has changed schools), Arthur doesn't work up the courage (or the time, or the energy) to return to Magic Club until the following week.

When he does, he's almost hoping he'll meet someone along the way to impede him. They'll look down their nose at him and raise their hand, eyes going bright... and he can almost feel his heart stuttering at just the idea.

Reality is less exciting. Arthur's making his way toward room B32 and its block-lettered sign, hands tucked casually in his pockets. It's right there in front of him, only a few steps away, and yet somehow he's nearly halfway down a corridor he's already walked before he realizes he's been turned around somehow. He tries again, counting doors this time— _B28, B30, B34, B36_ —and somehow skips right past it. He stops.

"You're trying to trick me," he says. He doesn't know if he's speaking to the corridor or to the walls—or if maybe there's someone watching him, manipulating his steps with nothing more than a vivid-eyed gaze. He shivers minutely at the thought of the latter but tries to put the idea out of his mind; he fixes his eyes on the door and its little, black-lettered sign, and steps forward.

For a split-second there's only a faint prickle on the underside of Arthur's foot; then the sensation swells and snaps into a vicious pinch. He gasps at the feeling and halts, overbalancing, stopping himself before he can take another step. Then he thinks, _why not?_ , he can take it, and steps forward again. But it doesn't strike under his foot this time, and there's no tickle of warning—instead the pain bursts right in the soft skin of his abdomen, sharp like gripping fingers, merciless.

A noise bursts out of his throat and he stumbles back a little, hands gone to his middle. He breathes a little wildly, still staring at the door and its sign ( _Magic Club_ , it pronounces, bold and unashamed). His head spins, the world shifting around him in the space of only a moment—and then he turns and walks away.

They can't actually be allowed to physically _harm_ him, Arthur thinks, when he's made it back to the safety and warmth of his room, his bed. It simply can't be allowed. How could they? This had to be against some sort of rule, some sort of—

It doesn't matter. His fingers shake as he unbuttons his shirt and prods at his stomach, searching for bruises. He can't find anything, not even a red mark, and it's frustrating; he finds himself pinching the spot before he can stop himself, layering a sharper ache over the soreness that he can just barely still feel.

There's something wrong with him. He wants to pick up his phone and call Merlin, wants to trade barbs and laughter, wants something that doesn't feel _suffocating_ like this. Merlin's voice is always bright and easy, and Arthur needs that right now; needs something to draw him out of this strange, dark place that magic has dragged him down to, but guilt is blocking the way.

He pinches his stomach again, leans back into the pillows, and doesn't call Merlin. He can feel himself sinking.

+++

It's driving him mad. For nearly a month, every Tuesday and Thursday, he slips to room B32 like he's a religious convert, pushing his way gasping through pinches and sparks of heat until he can't take it anymore, before fleeing home. If the pinches left marks he'd be black and blue by now; they catch him up and down indiscriminately, biting at his arms and legs, his arse, his neck, the palms of his hands. He explores them all in the safety of his room, driven by sickly fascination.

When he's with Merlin, it strips away. Arthur feels _normal_ with Merlin, like himself again, like he's come down from a high. He covers it up with brash words and long rambles, trying not to look too much like he's breathing in familiarity and comfort along with the smell of sun and grass and Merlin's ratty blue scarf.

One day Arthur counts twenty pinches. He gasps with each one, hisses at the one that lands on the back of his thigh and flinches at the one high up on his cheek, and suddenly he finds that he's _there_ , standing right in front of the door with the neatly tacked-on sign: _Magic Club_. He's close enough to reach out and turn the handle.

He can't quite decide if he should. He thinks he might have lost a crucial bit of purpose along the way.

He goes home and stares at his mobile for nearly ten minutes, trying to ignore the tremor in his breath, but doesn't call. It's Merlin's _presence_ he needs, anyway; a phone call wouldn't be enough.

+++

"What's wrong with you, Arthur?"

It's Lancelot who says it.

Arthur's surprised it's taken this long, actually; the past weeks hovering outside the clubroom door have worn on him, sapping at his focus, and yet no one's noticed. His father gets home late and doesn't check in on him, and Morgana has other things to worry about in her final year, though he catches her giving him the occasional glance. He'd hoped Merlin might notice how much Magic Club has been affecting him, but he also suspects Merlin doesn't really want to see. Merlin's tired all the time now, exhaustion and nerves wearing at the edges of him, and Arthur knows it's his fault, knows Merlin is worrying about him from the way he won't quite look at him straight anymore. He suspects Merlin is just trying to let him make his choices unpressured.

Arthur does have to make a choice. The decision sits heavy and terrible in his head—he could end the terrible cycle of worry and guilt if he just _stopped_ going to Magic Club, but he can't yet. He will eventually—he'll pick Merlin in the end, he'll always pick Merlin, but there's a whole world out there that he's not even set a foot into, and he doesn't want to walk away from it (or so goes his excuse). He can't give up on magic yet.

He'd wondered if his rugby mates might notice, but they hadn't said anything. Lancelot and Gwaine had given him sidelong glances, but it's not until now, after an enormous blunder on the pitch that he _knows_ is his fault, that they say anything.

"Look, Arthur, we don't know what's going on with you, and you don't have to tell us, but really," Gwaine says, bumping a fist against Arthur's shoulder, " _that_ was nowhere in the play. Let us know before you start trying to invent moves without teaching them to us first, okay?"

"It won't happen again," Arthur says, wiping sweat out of his eyes. "This is inexcusable, I can't apologize enough."

"No apology necessary," Gwaine says, though the tilt of his head says _as long as it doesn't happen again_. He jogs back to his starting position and Arthur watches him go, feeling his head start to ache; his life is falling to a shambles of _I'll let it go just this once_. It's getting to be out of hand—if he's honest, this whole pursuit has been nothing but out of hand.

"Arthur," Lancelot says from beside him, and Arthur startles to attention, blinking over. "I don't know exactly what's going on between you and Merlin, but I'm worried about it," Lancelot says. "Whatever is happening is affecting both of you, we can all see that. You need to sort yourselves out. He's a good friend, you don't want to lose him."

Lancelot is looking at Arthur like there's something unspoken between them, but Arthur can't quite make out what it is. Still, Lancelot is completely right.

They jog together back onto to the pitch, and Arthur thinks that after the game is over, he'll make a phone call.

+++

"Hypothetical question," he says.

"...I thought you weren't going to do any more of those?"

"I wasn't, but I've changed my mind. Now—hypothetical question."

"Yes?"

"If I invited you over here to watch England and Wales in the Six Nations match, would you come?"

"You sure that's a good idea? We'd get into a fight when Wales won."

"Don't be ridiculous Merlin, there's no way Wales is beating England this year. Anyway, would you come?"

"Maybe if you ordered in some takeaway. Watching you watch rugby makes me hungry."

"Alright then. Hypothetical question two."

"Yeah?"

"...It's purely hypothetical, mind."

"Ask, already."

"Say if we were watching the game, and sitting together on the couch, and I'd bought you takeaway from the curry place down the road, but we weren't eating, we were just watching the game. Say there was an incredible run, the kind that makes you stand up and shout when they finally make it in and score, the kind that makes you want to tackle and hug the nearest warm body."

"Yeah?"

"What would you do if I did?"

"...Tackle me and hug me, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"...Dunno, really. Would it be England or Wales that had done the scoring?"

"England, obviously. I wouldn't get so worked up if it were Wales."

"Hm. Well, I'd probably have to kick you off and wait for Wales to make up the points. I don't see I'd have any other option, really."

"And if it had been Wales who'd scored? Hypothetically, because we both know that they wouldn't."

"Hypothetically my arse, you prat. I suppose I'd hug you back."

+++

When Arthur approaches the hillside, Merlin is lying there in the grass in his shirtsleeves, right where he's supposed to be.

"You never learn," Arthur says, dropping to sit beside him. "You're going to work your mum to death, getting grass stains like those on your shirt and making her scrub at them." He picks up Merlin's scarf from where it's lying in the grass and drapes it over Merlin's face.

"I don't make her clean them," Merlin says, affronted, from under the scarf. "I do it myself. It's not hard."

"I'm pretty sure it is, Merlin," Arthur says. "I've stained my share of rugby kits over the years. I know how much the housekeepers curse over it."

"Never tried to wash one yourself, have you?" Merlin says, the scarf denting a little where he smirks under it. "You should try sometime. I've got a secret trick to it; maybe one day I'll show you."

"Until I see it, I'll remain skeptical," Arthur promises.

He pulls off his jumper then, and stretches out on top of it on the hill, closing his eyes to better enjoy the sun. After a moment he hears Merlin reach out his hand, slipping through the grass before finding the tips of Arthur's fingers, and it's barely anything but it's so much—it's more than Arthur had let himself hope, and he's warm all over at the feel of it.

They stay like that for the entire break, brushing together only slightly, but so softly, close. When the bell rings they part ways, fingers linking tenderly before pulling apart, and Arthur's too dizzy to say anything like _I liked that_ or _I like you_. This is bigger than any of that, and Arthur thinks he's going to burst with it; suddenly Merlin's presence isn't soft, but something large and powerful inside him, squeezing hard at his chest but leaving him light, uplifted. He goes to rehearsal with emotions stuffing him full, and thinks that this is enough for him. Magic Club isn't like this; he doesn't need it anymore, not like he needs this.

+++

Of course, it doesn't quite work out that simply.

"I hear that your performance at school has been suffering, as well as that of your rugby team," Uther says over dinner, not even bothering to look up at him. "Perhaps you should consider dropping rugby if you don't have the concentration to manage both."

"I'm the captain, Father, I can't just quit," Arthur says, teeth gritted. "I have a responsibility to my players as well as to myself. This is a minor aberration; I'm already working to correct it."

"See that you do," Uther says. "You know what's most important."

Arthur scowls and pushes potatoes around on his plate, his fork clenched tightly in his fist; one gentle caution from his father and he's all wound up again, like Merlin had never touched him at all. He wants to go to Magic Club, but feels like even considering it while in his father's presence is something akin to blasphemy. When he looks up, Morgana is gazing at him with sympathy.

"I know you've always wanted to please him, but you don't actually need to," she tells him later, when Uther has retreated to his study and it's just the two of them at the table with their books. "You don't have to listen to him. You already know what's most important, and it's not what Uther thinks."

"It doesn't matter what I believe is important if it all gets back to him anyway," Arthur snaps. He has a headache and the only things he can think of that would help are things that he can't have, like Merlin's hands in his hair or a slow wank, or a long set of pinches up his thighs.

"You overestimate Uther," Morgana says, with a smile on her face like she's eaten something delicious and never bothered sharing it with him. "He can find out a lot, but not everything. I imagine he'd have a lot more to say to you if he knew exactly why you've been so distracted."

Arthur stills. "Morgana."

"You've been juggling three different obsessions, so far as I can gather," she says, taunting, though she at least has enough sense to keep her voice down. "The first is Merlin, of course, and the second isn't so much Magic Club as it is magic itself, and the particular applications it can be put to. The third is, as always, trying to please Uther, though you still refuse to realize that you'll never be able to manage it."

Flushed with embarrassment, he says, "So what do you expect me to do? I can't just ignore everything he says. I've been listening to him too long, he has expectations."

"Try working to not-displease him, rather than to please him," Morgana says, shrugging. "You think he'll know if you actually go to Magic Club, rather than just standing outside the door? He won't. He's blind to everything he doesn't want to see. Trust me."

Something in her eyes dares him to ask how she knows, but he can't, and he doesn't really think he needs to. His stomach twists uncomfortably.

She sighs. "Arthur, listen to me. You can't divide yourself between those three things anymore. You just can't do it. They all collide together, and you'll crash and burn. But if you _listen_ —if you do exactly what I say—then it'll work out. Believe me."

It takes a moment, but Arthur realizes—he does. He believes her. (He can't help it, really.) When Morgana sees it written in his face, she smiles, and it touches all the way up to her eyes, like a weight lifting away.

She says, "Talk to Merlin. Be honest with him."

And Arthur listens.

+++

Honesty may be the best policy, but it's a hard one to follow; a muted sort of terror follows him through the morning. He can't quite decide if he wants to go through with it, and draws mazes in his notebook instead of listening to his teachers lecture.

Merlin is there, on the hill.

He's lying in the grass and biting his lip, staring up and twisting his scarf worriedly in his hands. Arthur stomps determinedly up and steals it from him without a word, flops onto his back, and drapes the fabric over his face before Merlin can properly formulate a protest.

"I need to tell you something," Arthur says.

"So do I," Merlin says. The sound of his voice is faintly muffled to Arthur's ears; it's on the other side of the scarf, a different world.

"I said it first, so I'm talking first," Arthur says, drawing what courage he can from the feeling of woolly blue isolation. In the open air, his fists clench. "I'm not sure if you realized, or if someone told you, but... I've been visiting Magic Club. Sort of."

The story falls from his lips in fits and starts. Merlin never says a word through it, just lies there beside him and listens, makes the occasional noise of acknowledgement. Arthur talks about Sophia, about heartbeats and adrenaline; he talks about sweet pinches to the bottoms of his feet, and then to the rest of him. He talks about the dizzying force of his curiosity, like a compulsion—how he _knew_ Merlin didn't want him to involve himself in these things, but that he couldn't help himself. He talks about how he now feels... changed. In just the slightest way.

There's something about magic, he says. Something about those pricks of sensation, about the power, that draws him in.

"I know it shouldn't," Arthur says. "I don't even want it to. I _like_ you, Merlin. I like you so much, and that should be enough for me. I want you to be enough for me."

"But?" Merlin prompts, quiet.

"But even after yesterday," Arthur says, "even after you, and me. Even now that you're right here, I can't help it, I still..."

Merlin doesn't say anything for a time, but then Arthur hears him shift in the grass, and then there's a line of warmth against his side—Merlin's body pressing in close. Fingers slide in under the scarf, tracing Arthur's jaw and pulling up the fabric in tiny, careful increments. Sunlight twinkles blue in the wool for a few last moments and then it's gone, the scarf discarded; it's just Merlin's face looking down into his. The air is cool on Arthur's lips, fresh.

"Anything else you want to tell me?" Merlin asks.

Arthur stares up at Merlin for a wild moment, then admits, "I always wank after talking to you on the phone."

"Oh _really_ ," Merlin says, as if this is the only thing said so far that has managed to surprise him, and then he kisses Arthur.

It's a sweet kiss, gentle and drawn out, but it's piercing too; it lances the tension still festering in Arthur's chest and drains it out, cold and clear. Arthur gasps, shuddering against Merlin's lips, and Merlin kisses him again, coaxing him alive. More than willing, he slips his hands up Merlin's sides, exploring with a curious, tentative hunger; Merlin hums into his mouth, pleased, and returns the favor.

The touches are intoxicating, bright as sugar water in his veins, and when Merlin's trailing fingers pause and nip in, pinching sharp at his sides, it all crystallizes to a point, and he can't help but cry out a little, helpless beneath the weight of it.

"You like it?" Merlin breathes.

"Yes. Fuck, yes."

So Merlin grips at Arthur's hair with one hand and drags a blunt thumbnail along Arthur's skin with the other, drawing patterns in raw, painful relief. He dots the lines with pinches, fearless twists of skin, and Arthur curls his hands happily against Merlin's shoulderblades, trying to smother the little grunts that want to burst their way out of him. Soon his skin is tingling all over, and each smooth pass of Merlin's hands brings an edge with it, a curious, staggering sensation, almost like pain.

An almost magical sensation, Arthur thinks.

The realization is like a burst of light, and it hits him at the same time as Merlin's next stroke; it _smarts_ , stinging on his skin and somewhere deeper—in his heart, his breath. His whole body jerks, but Merlin's expecting it, is already holding him down, both hands on his shoulders, straddling his waist.

Arthur looks up and meets his eyes, dazed.

" _Hypothetically_ ," Merlin whispers, staring down with intent as another line of pain blooms down Arthur's chest, this time tenderly, without any hands to guide it, "if I was the one doing this to you, what would you think?"

But the problem is Arthur _can't_ think. He just pants and gapes, shivering, staring into the blue of Merlin's eyes and the bright new world opening up there. When he does manage to scrape together the ruined mess of his thoughts, just for a second, he only gets one word: _perfect_.

Then he grabs Merlin by the collar and hauls him down, fierce, into a bruising kiss.

It's a kiss like they're trying to devour each other—and Arthur would normally find that image slightly repellent, but right now it's just hot. Merlin bites on Arthur's lip and sucks, and Arthur moans and pushes up, trying to get some leverage over Merlin. But Merlin just shoves him back down into the ground, surprisingly strong, and tangles his fingers in Arthur's hair, tilts him where he wants him to go.

It's so good, the little sparks of hurt under the sweet pressure of Merlin's weight, and it gets better and better until he can't keep track of it any longer. He does notice, though, when Merlin goes for his belt.

"Merlin!" he hisses, grabbing at Merlin's wrists. "Maybe you've forgotten, but we _are_ actually on an open hillside right behind the school. You might not mind having sex in the open air, but my tastes are a little more discerning."

"No one will see us," Merlin pants, wriggling his hands free and slipping fingers under Arthur's waistband.

"You don't know that," Arthur says, slapping at Merlin's hands and shooting him a frantic look.

"But I do," Merlin insists, and looks at him meaningfully. " _No one_ will see us."

There's a pause, and then comprehension hits him like a train. He moans, head thumping back into the grass; Merlin leans in for a messy kiss that is more than half smile, and strips open their belts, pulls down Arthur's zip, arches shamelessly against him.

The lunch break isn't long enough for what they really need—Merlin's mouth, his tongue and teeth, against every tender place that Arthur's ever felt the touch of magic, marking him anew—but it's long enough for this. They move together and Arthur clings on for all he's worth, Merlin's forehead pressed damply to his, their mouths open and together, their shared breath hot. Merlin goes off groaning, dragging Arthur with him just behind, and then it's over and Arthur wishes it wasn't, but he can already feel the change inside himself. There are grass stains dark on his elbows, but some deeper stain has sunk down, into his bones.

The grass stains, at least, are simple. Merlin waves his hand and their shirts are crisp and white again.

"You cheat," Arthur says, huffing out a laugh as he watches. "When you said you had a trick to it I thought it meant you were actually competent at something."

"I can be competent at anything I want," Merlin says, affronted. "If I'm rubbish at something it's because I haven't bothered putting in the effort."

"Then you're just lazy," Arthur decides.

Merlin grins at that, but doesn't disagree, and they lie on their backs, the sunlight playing between them and over the join of their hands. Arthur thinks, _I could get used to this._

"Want to go to Magic Club together later?" Merlin says, out of the blue.

"Sure, yeah," Arthur says, and somehow it's the easiest thing in the world.

The bell rings, then, but it's too soon; they haven't talked about anything of importance yet. There are things that need to be discussed, from the extraordinary to the mundane: whether all the secrets are out now, or if there are still things that Arthur hasn't been told. Whether Arthur will ever thank Morgana for her advice, or if Merlin will have to do it for him. What magic feels like from the _inside_ , not just the out. If they ought to call themselves boyfriends now, even if the word seems too small to encompass the thing between them.

But those are questions for rainy days, after the two of them have spent all their electricity in heated communion and have the time to lie back and debate the truth. For now they have places to go, and classrooms to see, so Arthur tags Merlin's arm and they race together for the school gates. The beginning is now, he thinks. There is time for all the rest later, in the hypothetical future that they'll spin, together.


End file.
